The Lies We Tell To Children
by Cryptic Nymph
Summary: Sherlock's mother told him stories about fantasy worlds. And, despite himself, he began to believe that stories had happy endings. Side along fic to Winter In My Heart, mostly consisting of her telling him a fairy tale. Minor moments of Sherlock/John!
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! This is the first chapter of a sort of side-along fic for my other story, Winter In My Heart (shameless plug there, I know). The basic premise is that this is a story that Sherlock's mother read to him. Sounds odd, but hopefully it will work ;D By no means do you have to read that to understand this one, but I've tried to make sure that the themes of this story fit with the themes of the other story... Yeah. OK. I'll shut up now.**

**Oh! One last thing! You've probably heard about Sherlock being nominated for the BAFTA Audience Choice Award thingy, and it's up against The Killing, Downton Abbey, Miranda, The Only Way Is Essex and Big Fat Gypsy Weddings. I'm kind of taking on a crusade of forcing my friends to vote for Sherlock, and I thought I'd plug it for those who didn't know. Please vote? Please? C'mon, do we really want TOWIE to win? Really? Sherlock would be so upset!**

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><p>Sherlock had always had a somewhat turbulent relationship when it came to the imaginary. On the one hand, his coldly logical mind rejected the world of wizards and dragons, even at a young age. On the other hand… Something indescribable had drawn him to tales of fantasy. And who wouldn't, with the magical tales his mother told him? And though Sherlock berated himself for it later, he had begun to <em>believe<em> in the power of stories. He had become just like every other seven year old child, blindly accepting the idea that there would always be a happy ending. It would soon be stopped.

He was an inquisitive child, he always had been, his curiosity occasionally lapsing into morbid fascination whenever he found something that held his interest for too long. He spent most of his time alone, away from other people, observing and recording and judging the world that he lived in. He rarely spoke to Mycroft- a seventeen year old boy could hardly be expected to play with a seven year old- but every night, Sherlock's mother would offer to read Mycroft a story with them.

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><p>'Mother,' Mycroft said hotly. 'I am far too old for fairy tales.' And with that, he huffily marched away, his long nose held priggishly aloft in the air.<p>

Sherlock and his mother sat in his bedroom, trying to restrain their hysterical giggles.

'We shouldn't laugh,' she gasped.

'We should,' said Sherlock. 'It's his fault if he's going to be so moody. _"I am far too old for fairy tales"_' Sherlock imitated, screwing his face up into a pretentious sneer, sending his mother into fits of laughter once more.

'Oh Sherlock,' she said, ruffling his dark mess of curls. He frowned playfully. 'What story would you like, hmmm?'

Sherlock's eyes glinted mischievously. 'A new one?'

His mother smiled. 'I did have an idea for a very long story, if you want to hear that. A fairy tale.'

Sherlock scowled, but there was no meaning behind it. He loved her stories. 'I suppose…'

'Alright then." She cleared her throat, before tucking Sherlock into bed. Adopting her best, story telling voice, she began.

'_In a kingdom by the sea, there was a kind and loving King, who adored his country and his public dearly. He considered them his family, his friends and his responsibility to look after. The King ran his empire justly and thus gained the trust of his community. His Queen was a simple country girl of humble origins, but one who was bright enough to catch the noble ruler's eye. But their story is for another place and another time, our tale concerns what happened afterwards. They married, and had two sons. One, the eldest, was the most intelligent and most stately boy in the realm, and his parents loved him. He knew every word in the dictionary, he knew about everything there was to know. The other, the youngest, knew everything he thought was necessary. Because what this little boy had was raw genius, waiting to be polished into something brilliant and dazzling. He was a diamond in the rough.'_

Sherlock laughed. 'Oh mother'.

'What?'

'Shameless self insertion. You are the Queen, Father is the King and Mycroft and I are the sons. It's obvious.'

She gave him a small half smile, not sure whether to be annoyed that he had criticised her, or proud that he had been smart enough to notice. Smart enough to know what 'self insertion' was, for that matter. 'Do you want to hear the story or not?'

Sherlock shut up rather quickly, managing a quiet 'Yes.'

'Good.' She coughed once again. _'There they lived, in peaceful harmony with all those around them, until one day. The King had decided that, to commemorate the anniversary of their treaty with the Shadow Kingdom, he would hold a huge festival in the streets of the land. There was to be celebration in every street, in every house, with every family, and people rejoiced at the opportunity to be with their ruler and his family. The royal family of the Shadow Kingdom would also join them in their celebrations later that night, when they would arrive at the palace to meet the King and his family. The people from the Shadow Kingdom were of equal dominion to the King, but without union between them there would be uproar in the cities. Luckily, the King was a gentle and kind enough man to rule his domain and guard the relationship between the worlds carefully, so was beloved by all who met him._

'_Except for one- one person did not love the King. There was an elderly woman who lived in the darkest area of the kingdom, a place where grown men feared to go. Her house was down a narrow alleyway, and virtually no sunlight reached her where she sat in her bedroom, practising magic with mirrors. Now, what you have to learn about mirrors is that they deceive people, they are tricksters. They make you trust the wrong things, the wrong people, they'll twist your view until all you see is you, if you stare at them for too long. But mirrors have power, and mirrors can be manipulated if you know how._

'_Such was the wisdom of the old lady who whispered to mirrors. Because, yes, she was wise, wise indeed, but staring at the mirrors for too long had made her ill. They made her heart grow colder, because there's no warmth in a mirror, only a reflection of warmth. These mirrors drove the old woman mad, until even the bravest and most loyal like the King became her enemies. Every night, she whispered to the mirrors, and they told her secrets about the King.'_

His mother noticed that Sherlock seemed a little saddened by that. She smiled at him, her dark eyes agleam even in the relative dusk of the room. 'A mirror is a connection to another mirror, did you know that?'

Sherlock snorted, his tiny arms crossed defiantly. 'Rubbish.'

She grinned. _'Mirrors are all joined, and you can see through them to other rooms, other cities, other worlds, if you know how. The old lady whispered to the mirrors, "Show me the King"'._

She had adopted a strangled, croaky voice for the old woman, and Sherlock giggled. She smiled too. _'And they did, they showed her the King wherever he was, and every night she would watch him, to see what he was planning. One night, the night before the jubilee in fact, she saw the King eating dinner with his family._

'"_What's this?" she asked herself._

'_The King and his family were happily feasting, and the old woman watched them chat to each other. She saw the brilliance of the family, their perfection; and this perfection turned to resentment and bile in her mouth. The old woman had no children, she had no friends, and worst of all, the sun would not shine on her home. She wanted what they had. She saw the joy that they brought to the King and decided that she wanted to stop it. If she could not have such happiness, no one would. _

'_She whispered, "Show me the children._"

'_The two boys were sitting happily together. One was far older than the other, a good ten years. He was around 16, proud and intelligent. But the younger boy, he was still a child, still impressionable, still innocent. Something she could call her own. And then, the old woman decided that she wanted the little boy to be hers.'_

Sherlock's mother glanced over at him, checking to see his reaction. People who did not know Sherlock would have thought him unaffected by the story, his face was impassive and calm. However, his mother spotted the light shimmering in his eyes, the slight smirk that the boy put on whenever he was feeling particularly happy.

'Carry on!' he said, half impatiently, half desperately.

'_The next day, the family were to be part of the procession in their royal carriage, the roof open so the King could wave to his people. Thousands of joyous people cried out loudly along the parade route, waving flags of brilliant blue and gold, the state's national colours. In fact, everywhere within the King's territory was celebrating- except one passage way. The coach reached the dark and dangerous street where the old woman lived, where no decorations were hung, and no flags were waved._

'"_What is the meaning of this?" said the King. "Everyone is to rejoice the anniversary of our pact." He turned to his footman. "Who lives down this street?"_

'"_No one," said the footman. "Save an elderly beggar woman at the very end, sir."_

'"_Why does she not celebrate?" asked the Queen._

'"_No one dares ask her, your majesty," the footman replied. "She is mad."_

'"_Mad she may be, but surely she enjoys the merriment?"_

'"_Apparently not, your grace."_

'_The King looked gravely at the Queen for a moments. "What can we do to help this poor woman?"_

'"_Perhaps we could visit her?" she replied. "To let her know that she is welcome?"_

'_The King nodded, and instructed the guards to steer the chariot down into the alley. Further and further they travelled, onwards down the narrow road, and the light from the rest of the town began to fade. Still, they travelled forwards to the house, until all light faded completely. They could not possibly see where they were._

'"_This darkness," said the Queen. "How is this possible? It's the middle of the day!"_

'_The guards took out their lanterns, but as hard as they tried, they could not get them to light. They were alone in the deep gloom, unable to see._

'_For the old woman had lured the King down her alley for a reason, and there she hid, her eyes used to the dusk. She saw the youngest son, sitting next to his mother but near enough for her to take him. She reached out with her wrinkled hands and clamped her long fingers over his mouth, so he could not make a single sound or cry out at all. The little boy struggled as best he could, but the old woman's arms were surprisingly strong and they held him in place tightly. Quickly, she stole the little boy from where he sat in the carriage, and slunk away into the darkness of the path._

_The little boy could hear__ the shrieks of his mother, and tried to call to her, but the old woman's fingers still restricted his voice. She took the little boy away to her house, and chained him up, alone in the dark.'_

Sherlock let out a small noise, somewhere between a derisive laugh and a whimper. She had not meant to scare him, she only wanted to keep him interested.

'Are you alright, darling?' she asked him.

'Yes,' he said, quieter now than before. Sherlock would never admit he was scared-likewise he would never admit he was wrong.

She continued. _'Now, you mustn't blame the old lady for what she did, by this point she was quite mad. She cared for the little boy, loved him even, but she did not understand how to look after a child. He had to fend for himself, feed himself with food from her kitchen and learn to adjust to the darkness around him. Once a day, he was allowed to stare out of the window with the old woman, and she would tell him stories about the people who lived in the country._

'"_You can't trust them," she would say to the little boy warningly. "The people who live out there are twisted and vicious. They will hurt you if you try and be friendly to them."_

'_Whilst the little boy never fully warmed to the old lady, he began to fear the outside world as much as he did his own captor, and eventually he began to forget who he was and who his family were._

'_His own family did not forget about him, and why he had been taken. His mother, the Queen, became very depressed from the loss of her son. It ate away at her, and eventually all she would do is stay in her room, staring out of the window. The maids often heard her whisper "Come back to me," to the world below her, but she never heard a reply. The empire was left in deep distress by the kidnapping of the young prince, and they set out to find their lost child. Every corner, every inch of the realm was searched for the little boy, but to no avail. In the street where he had disappeared, no one could see an inch in front of their faces. How could they know where he had been taken? The public grew ever desperate, and as despairing and forlorn people often do, they seized upon a chance to blame someone for the prince's disappearance._

'_Tension grew between the King and the Shadow Kingdom- after all, the little boy had been stolen in the depths of the dark. The King believed that the Shadows had taken his son from them, and were refusing to give him back. Of course, the denizens of the Shadow Kingdom had no idea what had happened, and thought that the King was trying to start a war between the worlds. Both rulers were wise and noble, so they knew that they must avoid war at all costs- but relations were bitter and restless from then on._

'_The little boy knew nothing of this, growing up in the darkness of the house without any contact with the rest of the land. When there is no light in your life, things can often grow cold and detached, and this was the case with our hero. He knew no other people except the old woman he lived with, and she neglected him. Why should he trust others? He had no positive experiences to remember. And so, over the passing of time, the little boy's heart grew cold, and the mirrors laughed, because this was exactly what they wanted._

'_And, as the time passed, the old woman died. She was, after all, incredibly old, and her life had been hard. I must reiterate this, you cannot blame the elderly lady, she was not well at all. The young boy, now nine, saw this as his chance to escape. He prised off the old and rusty locks that kept him in place in the house, and ran to the window where he would escape from. He was about to leap from the room, when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirrors that hung there._

_The mirrors did not want the prince to leave, they were certain of that, and they had had plenty of time to distort his mind._

'"_**Don't leave," they pleaded. "We will miss you!"**__' _Sherlock's mother put on a rattling, breathy voice to give them an eery air of mistrust.

'_The prince hesitated, still perched daintily on the window sill._

'"_**Stay here with us!"**_

'_He turned towards the open sky and the ground below, brimming with people. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, and tried to climb down._

'"_**They'll reject you!"**__ the mirrors shrieked, stopping the prince in his tracks. __**"The old woman told you, they will hurt you like they hurt her."**_

'_The little boy clambered back into the room, and picked up one of the mirrors. "I'm sure it can't be that bad."_

'"_**They'll think you're a freak. You are a freak. Look at you!"**__ And as the little boy saw his face in the mirror, it became… something else. It was exactly the same as it had always been, except now- Now, it repulsed him. It felt wrong to look at, like it was disgusting. This distortion was unnerving. Revulsion stung his throat as the boy stood staring at his appearance with fascinating horror. It sickened him to his very core._

'"_**Who would accept something so very unnatural?" the mirrors cackled. "Except us. We love you. Stay with us."**_

'_Mirrors have sway over us all, they make us believe things that we shouldn't, but to a vulnerable and neglected boy like the prince, he was affected worse than most. He gave one last, lingering look at the outside world, before he bolted the windows shut._

Sherlock's mother glanced at the clock on the bedside table. 'It's getting late,' she said wearily.

'Please!' Sherlock tugged on the hem of her skirt. 'Just a bit longer!'

'Fine,' she sighed. _'And so the years passed, without interest, without excitement. The little boy grew older, and ventured outside only to steal food from the local stalls- he had no way of earning money for himself. He hid from the people, for fear they would beat him, and without any evidence to the contrary, he took this mantra to heart. As he aged, his heart grew colder still, such was the lack of human contact and warmth in his life, until it was barely there at all._

'_The area, as I've said, was violent and frightening for the young boy, even when he grew a little older still. Men would hammer on the door of the house, drunk and filled with rage, demanding to be let in. At times like this, the boy- for he was no longer little- would hide in one of the darkest corners of the house, before curling up into a ball and humming a tune to himself._

'_Except one night, when the boy was twelve, he was forced to run from the house he had known for half his life. He awoke to the sound of drunken yelling, the laughter of men who had consumed too much beer. He could smell the alcohol from where he slept; it reeked from them, mingling with the stench of dirt and sweat. He could not make out what the men were saying, but he knew that it frightened him. The unintelligible mumbling grew louder and louder, until the little boy saw a sudden burst of light through the cracks in the door._

'_You must remember that this boy, this poor neglected child, he did not often see light, only when he was so hungry that he was forced to venture outside. He did not at first realise what the light was, but it hypnotised him from the moment he saw it. The smouldering brightness blazed dazzlingly in the shadows of the house, its shimmering heat drawing the boy inexplicably towards it. He brought his hand up to meet the fierce incandescent glow that was surrounding the door, and pain streaked through his body. In sudden realisation, the boy understood what the light was- it was the burning passion of fire. The flames licked the door, desperately attempting to reach the boy where he stood. Flickering fire had spread to the walls of the house now, tearing at the building and allowing smoke to fill the rooms. Terrified, the boy ran to the window of the bedroom that he had long ago bolted shut, pulling desperately at the locks and chains. _

'"_**Don't leave!"**__ the mirrors screamed. __**"Don't leave us!"**_

'_The prince was too terrified to hear the voices of the mirrors, finally managing to hurl the windows open. He hastily struggle onto the edge of the window, the blazing heat behind him contrasting with the cool night's air. He braced himself, counted to three, and then leaped from the room._

'_The boy landed with a shuddering thud on the ground, rolling as he landed. Pain shot through his limbs, and he heard a horrible snap in his arm. Tears in his eyes, the boy struggled to his feet, staggering down the street and away from the wreckage of his home._'

Sherlock's mother stopped, only now realizing the fear reflected in Sherlock's eyes. 'Oh, I'm sorry darling, I didn't mean to frighten you.'

'I'm not frightened!' Sherlock said indignantly, but he did not look angry when his mother hugged him tightly.

'I won't tell that story again,' she said, softly stroking his hair.

'Please do,' Sherlock said, almost desperately. 'I like it. I want to know how it ends.'

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><p>Sherlock never told his mother, but he had had nightmares that night. He could barely remember them now, but he knew there had been fire, and his mother had been screaming. Oddly, the way that his mother had reassuringly hugged him made him feel less inclined to asking her for help. She smelt of flowery perfume and warmth and everything <em>good<em> in the world, and she loved him. _Him_. The idea of having someone so unfailingly proud of everything he did, it made him want to seem strong. Why, he was never sure. But he knew he could never allow himself to look weak. Not ever.

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><p><strong>AN I finally figured out how to do those line things :D Go me! Did you like it? I'll contiue it if people do, but if they don't I'll take it off. I'm ever so slightly worried that people won't... Care to tell me if my paranoia is justified? Click that blue button below. Go on... You know you want to. Please? *offers John's stripey jumper***


	2. Chapter 2

**Emasone- I very much doubt I'll pass my English GCSE to be honest, I can't write an essay to save my life. It's so dull! I don't know how people can survive! Thanks for the lovely review! :D**

**Hey there reader! Thanks to Blackcurrant Bonbons, Emasone, gumfrog and Aurora Borealia for reviewing the last chapter, you guys are awesome ;D So, this is chapter two, and there's a pinch of slash, just FYI. Oh, and I'm sure you all know about Sherlock being nominated for 4 BAFTAs (Leading Actor, Supporting Actor, Drama Series, the YouTube Audience Award), but I decided to spam the Internet with more news of Sherlock's success again :D I'm going back to school on Tuesday, which sucks, but I'm going to an encore performance of Frankenstein on Friday and to see the Levellers the Friday after that, so it's all good :D I hope you like the chapter, it just didn't seem to work in the way I wanted it to, but you can always tell me if you want it rewritten. Thanks for reading!**

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><p>The first time Sherlock loved someone, it had been his mother. He never really noticed a point where he had realized this, it had simply grown over time. He wanted so badly to help her, wanted to protect her, his misplaced sense of duty driving him to dependency on his mother's love.<p>

The second time Sherlock loved someone, it had been Mycroft. This had been sudden- Sherlock had grazed his knee when he was nine, and Mycroft had bought him an ice cream. The sudden surge of affection for his brother had been shocking, but he'd learned to ignore that voice in the back of his head that told him that he _liked_ his brother, in favor of tormenting him about his weight problem. At the time, it did not occur to him that this was cruel.

The third time Sherlock loved someone; it had been a boy in his English class. His name was Victor, and he had thick glasses that somehow framed his face nicely, even if the other kids did tease him. He had short ginger hair, and he was the only other boy as unpopular as Sherlock. When Sherlock was fourteen, he worked up the courage to ask Victor to his home. Victor had refused, on the basis that he didn't want to be associated with such a freak. Sherlock had begun to persecute Victor with the other children, and though they thought he was just as much of an anomaly as Victor, they seemed to back off Sherlock. This time, Sherlock had known his behaviour had been vicious and spiteful. He just couldn't bring himself to care.

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><p>Sherlock's mother sat down on the end of the bed, stroking his hair. 'How was your day, sweet heart?'<p>

'Fine,' Sherlock mumbled, not looking at her.

She frowned. 'Darling? What's wrong?'

'Nothing, mother. I just don't feel well.'

She tucked him into bed. 'Oh, well, I can fix that.' She tickled him under his chin, and Sherlock giggled. 'Mother! Stop!' He laughed delightedly.

She smiled back at him. 'Time for a story. Now, where were we? Oh yes. The prince had been forced from his burning home,' She gave Sherlock a wicked grin, 'Are you sitting comfortably?'

Sherlock's eyes widened wordlessly, his expression clearly saying 'Really? You're going to say that? Oh mother…'

She smiled, and began to recount her tale. _'His eyes were used to the darkness, and he found his way out of the alley easily. As he turned onto the main street, he saw three men chatting idly to each other. Cursing silently, he slunk into the shadows once more._

'"_They say," said the first. "That the King is thinking of war with the Shadow Kingdom."_

'"_What, because of his son?" said the second. "Nah, he'd have gone when the boy was taken, not now."_

'"_Yeah, but you forget," said the first. "There's this whole business with the Shadow Princess Leila. She and Prince Magnus have become friends."_

'"_Friends!" laughed the third. "Just friends? Not bloody likely. He'll have his way with her as soon as he can. Besides, he's betrothed to another. The daughter of an aristocrat- Joanna, or something."_

'"_The King would never allow a marriage between Prince Magnus and Shadow Princess Leila in any case," said the second. "That's for certain."_

'"_Hey," said the third. "Who's that over there?" he pointed at the spot where the prince was hidden. _

'"_There's a boy, hiding!" cried the first._

'"_Hey!" yelled the second. "Get out from there!"_

'_The boy jumped to his feet and began to ran, the three men chasing him closely behind._

'"_Get him!" shouted who he thought was the third man, though he could not see due to his determination to escape them. Luckily, his youth gave him the advantage, and the men soon fell back behind him._

'_Panting, he slumped against a wall, clutching his broken arm. It was hurting him badly, and he had no idea how he would heal it._

'_There was a sudden flash of light, and for one moment the boy thought that the fire had returned somehow, but it was only the light of a lantern._

'"_Hello?" came a deep and kind voice from the glow. "Who's there?"_

'_The boy tried to hide, but there was no more darkness to conceal himself in. Holding his arm steadily, he stood rooted to the spot where he stood._

'"_Excuse me, but you look like you need help." The person carrying the lantern was a man, with greying hair and bright eyes. He walked up to where the prince stood, examining his arm. "I'm no doctor," he said kindly, "but it looks like you need some help with that. Come in."_

'_The prince hesitated, unsure of what to do._

'_The man smiled. "I won't hurt you! I just want to help, honestly."_

'_Nervously, the boy followed the man inside with tentative steps.'_

'That seems unlikely,' Sherlock interrupted, glaring at his mother. 'That could have been anyone, it could have been a serial killer for all he knew. Of course he wasn't going to say he would hurt him.'

His mother smiled, in spite of herself. 'He was a trusting boy, that's a good thing.'

Sherlock mumbled something about ignorance and foolishness, but she ignored him._ 'The house was warm, oh so warm, with pictures upon the wall and candles lighting the way. The boy found the light entrancing, watching the flames dance and flicker as he stared. _

'_The man laughed. "Come inside, I need to dress your wounds, and you look as though you haven't eaten a decent meal in, well, ever."_

'_He sat down on an old, rickety chair in the kitchen, examining the gleaming surfaces. Whilst not big, the house was well cared for by its owner, who was presumably the man he was sat with. The man dabbed at the gash on his forehead with something that stung, and he winced a little at the contact._

'"_Don't worry, it'll help, I promise. Now let's take a look at your arm," he said calmly. "It certainly looks worse for wear. What were you doing?"_

'"_I," the boy mumbled. "My house… Fire- There was fire."_

'_The man took a bandage from the pile in his arms. "What, the arson attack on that old woman's house up the street? I saw it from my window. I didn't know that anyone lived there anymore, I thought she was dead."_

'"_She is," he said, still quietly. "I lived there with her."_

'"_Oh. But now who do you live with?"_

'"_Just me."_

'_The man tutted. "That's terrible! You're so young, how could you survive in a place so dark?"_

'"_I don't know. I've- I've just always been there. For as long as I can remember. I," he struggled to think of a time before the old house. "I think I remember another place, a warm place. Lots of laughing, lots of people. But it was probably a dream. Wishful thinking." He laughed, but there was not a trace of humour in it._

'"_Do you have a place where you can stay?" asked the man, in the middle of tying the prince's arm into a sling._

'"_No," he said truthfully. "I don't know anyone else."_

'_The man chuckled. "Then you must stay here with me! I can't possibly allow you to go out into the world on your own."_

'"_I would be too much trouble, sir," said the boy._

'"_Not at all! So polite, not like all the other boys. You would be the perfect heir to my business, you know. My name is Elias Holloway, and I am a tailor."_

'"_You make clothes?" asked the boy, sipping at a drink that Elias had made him._

'"_I make all sorts of things. And I could teach you, if you like. You would have a trade, and would be able to make money of your own, until you find something better. Would you like that?"_

'_The boy stared at the man for a few moments, trying to analyze whether he trusted him. '"Yes," he said finally. "I would like that very much."_

'_So Elias gave the boy a room, in the attic at the very top of his house. It was a nice room, the boy decided, very nice indeed. It was warm, and Elias had provided him with many blankets to put on his iron bedstead in case he got cold. There was a little shelf, and he his new possessions on it- an atlas, a small ball, a candle and a box to keep his wages in. He did not own much, but when he worked more he would earn money to buy more. _

_There was also a small set of drawers, in which he kept his clothes. Elias, as a tailor, had made him a work uniform as well as two or three changes of casual clothes- his treat, he insisted. This had made him feel very important, especially when he considered the rags he had been wearing before. Best of all, there was a window in the roof which he could climb through, and he would often sit on the roof and gaze at the stars. Occasionally, Elias would join him._

'"_You see over there?" he pointed at the palace. "That's where the royal family live."_

'"_Wow," he gasped, staring at the grand opulence of the building. "They must love it there."_

'_Elias smiled. "Do not mistake wealth for happiness, child. There is a difference."_

'"_I was poor, and I was not happy."_

'_Elias grinned again. "That's a good point. But that wasn't because you were poor, it was because you were alone. I myself am poor, and I was quite sad before I met you, but now I have company again. I had a wife, long ago, but she died."_

'_The prince, never having experienced death except for that of his captor, felt uneasy about what to do. He patted Elias on his arm sympathetically, though he wasn't sure why._

'"_Thank you," Elias responded. "But now you have a friend, do you feel happier?"_

'_The prince thought about it. "Yes," he said. "I do."_

'"_Well, there you go! But poor Prince Magnus, who lives up in the castle, he is destined to be the next King. And he is not allowed to meet people his own age, only other royals- and we all know how stuck up some people can be."_

'_The boy giggled. "Yes, yes I do."_

'"_And the servants all know that too, so even they won't approach him, for fear of him insulting them."_

'"_How do you know all this?" the prince asked in awe._

'"_I have a friend, her name is Esme. She works in the kitchens, and she knows everything that goes on in the palace. He has befriended a girl, around the same age as him, who is a princess of the Shadow Kingdom."_

'"_So? That's good, isn't it?"_

'_Elias shook his head gravely. "I'm afraid not. The Shadow Kingdom and our own have been unofficial enemies since the taking of the young prince."_

'"_There was another prince?" said the boy, unaware of his own place in such matters._

'"_Yes. A young boy, stolen five or six years ago." Elias paused, a creeping horror of realisation when he stared at the boy's regal features, his dark hair, his striking eyes.'_

'Mother," said Sherlock abruptly. 'Far too personal.'

'Who says I was talking about you? Somebody's getting cocky,' she smiled at him, but Sherlock did not return it, a cold, bitter look ghosted his features.

His mother frowned, before continuing._ 'He stared at the child. "How old are you?"_

'"_Around twelve, I think. Why?"_

'_Elias's eyes widened. "You were stolen?"_

'"_Er, I'm not sure." The prince scratched his head and narrowed his eyes, trying to focus his thoughts. "I can only ever remember being in the house. Why?" he asked again, a little more impatiently this time._

'_Now Elias, he had a real problem on his hands. He could either tell the King of his suspicions, and face the consequences if he was wrong- the King did not appreciate anyone who raised his hope unnecessarily- or leave the boy here with him, as his apprentice, never knowing what he could be._

'_It hurt him to think so, but he knew that somehow he had to help the prince. As much as he longed for the company, as much as he wished for the boy to be there with him, it was his duty to the child to help his on his path. But openly declaring that he had found the lost prince was not a good move- so what could he do?_

'_Suddenly, an idea came to him, and the faintest of smiles crept onto his lips. "Do you like the palace?"_

'_The prince nodded. "Oh yes, very much."_

'"_I could arrange for you to work there, as a servant. Would you like that?"_

'_The boy smiled. "Yes, I should like that very much. But would you be alright?"_

'"_I would be fine," he said, with an all too fake smile, the loss of his companion hurting his heart._

'_They did not leave immediately, as Elias had to wait for contact with his friend Esme and for an opportunity to employ the child. In that time, Elias had kept his word and employed the prince in his shop, paying him and teaching him to sew. The boy found that he had a talent for it; he could weave and embroider clothing far better than most apprentices in just a week. Soon, Elias had taught him how to make gloves, trousers, even coats, and he began to feel at home again. But time passed all too quickly, and Elias soon heard news from Esme._

'_In the middle of the night, Elias shook the boy gently awake._

'"_Wake up," he said gently, patting the prince on his shoulder._

'"_What?" said the boy, rubbing his sleepy eyes wearily._

'"_It's time." They gathered his things into a small bag- his clothes, his wages, his atlas and his ball. Elias turned to him, sadly. "I want you to have this." He held out a shining wooden box._

'_Tentatively, the prince took it, turning the metallic lock and discovering a large sewing kit._

'"_Oh no," said the boy. "I couldn't. It's yours."_

'"_And now, it's yours. Just promise me you'll work hard in the palace, do you understand me?"_

'_The prince nodded, and Elias fastened the buttons on his coat for him before setting off to the palace. They travelled in the shadowy back alleys of the city, not wanting to be seen smuggling a child who could well be the missing prince of the kingdom. After a while, when they reached the palace walls, they heard a high, shrill whistle. Turning around, they saw a small, middle aged lady waiting by the gates, her hair greying like Elias's._

'_She smiled brightly at them. "Elias," she said warmly. "It's been too long."_

'_He lifted his hat up shyly. "I have the boy. He still has a position?"_

'"_As a kitchen boy, but I dare say that if he works hard, he could move up."_

'_Elias laughed. "Well, there's no danger of that. He's as bright as a button, this one. Look after him for me, won't you?"_

'"_Of course." She unlocked the steel gates with a shining silver key she took out of her pocket (they did not ask where she had gotten it from), and the prince went inside. She shut the gates, so Elias and the boy were on opposite sides of the metal barrier._

'"_Be good," Elias said sadly._

'"_I'll come back and visit! And maybe you can visit me!"_

'_Elias nodded, knowing that he wouldn't, and that he couldn't. With merely a smile, he turned his back on the two, and walked back into the darkness. The boy watched him until he was out of sight, and for the first time he could remember, he felt like he missed someone.'_

His mother noticed that Sherlock had fallen asleep, his knees tucked up around his chest. His dark mane of unruly curls looked truly beautiful next to his pale skin, and she marvelled at how any of the other children could dislike this perfect little boy.

* * *

><p>A few years later, Victor had committed suicide, leaving a note saying that 'he couldn't handle the taunts anymore'. Sherlock had not gone to the funeral, after all, it would have been disrespectful. He couldn't think of a point where he had stopped loving Victor- because he <em>had<em> loved him, even once he had rejected his friendship, even as Sherlock psychologically tormented him. It must have ended at some point, he no longer loved his late class mate, but he couldn't place it. After Sherlock lost his innocence, at some point in his childhood, his memories had become a blur of painful, bitter fury. It felt like the same festering, aching hunger that lingered in his husk of a heart, but one he couldn't quite remember.

The next time Sherlock loved someone, it felt both sudden and gradual, like he'd regained his memory. And it had hurt, of course, it had to be painful for it to work properly, those were the rules. His memories of his childhood had come back to him, and they no longer felt like they were happening to someone else, a fictional character that he couldn't empathise with. He had embraced his past self, and his suffering, and it tore him apart as he fell down onto the rocks of his own damn _stupidity_. But with the biting, burning memories came the glorious, blissful intensity of finding himself in love with John Hamish Watson, the constant he needed in his life. And whilst he tried to stop it, that empty husk of a heart had begun to beat again, no matter what he did to it. He tried to be cruel, he tried to hurt John, but he found himself willingly giving his heart to a man who could so easily crush it in his hands. Because he loved the thrill of the uncertainty, and that was his new drug. Knowing that at any moment, John could destroy him. But for once, he cared whether there was a happy ending.

* * *

><p><strong>I only just realized that 'Princess Leila' sounds an awful lot like 'Princess Leia' :S No infringement intended, Star Wars fans. Oh, and I should have probably mentioned earlier, I don't own Sherlock, yada yada. If I did, do you think I'd be here right now? I'd be doing FAR more interesting things with a certain Mr Cumberbatch ;D Thank you for reading!<strong>


	3. THIS IS NOT A CHAPTER

**Hello. This isn't a chapter. As you can see. I'm very sorry. I'm afraid there's going to be a brief hiatus in the story, because I have exams and various things to get through, which are all very stressful and require my attention. There may be a chapter updated in a while, and then a long wait again, as I start to panic about my History exam nearer the end of the year.**

**Yeah, I'm majorly panicky, and I feel bad for leaving you guys hanging. In my spare time (when I'm meant to be revising, effectively), I'll try and get chapters written! I'll delete these once I actually get chapters up.**

**So, for the moment, I'm posting this on all my stories, and I have to leave you lovely people. And you lovely people are **_**far**_** more interesting than the people I encounter in my actual life (Christ, that sounded sad), so I shall be missing you. **

**Thanks,**

**Bethan (AKA Cryptic Nymph)**

**P.S *kiss kiss hug*- Anyone who gets the reference gets my love for all eternity. **


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